It’s cool today. Looking out of my tiny house’s window, I see fog in the valley.
It meanders. It lingers. I behave the same when I think, when I write.
As I stare at it, the fog takes me places: places unknown, places I’m trying to reach.
The fog is freeing, but overpowering.
We have an interesting relationship, the fog and I. I grew up with it — it’s like a comfort blanket — yet we have grown apart over the years.
I don’t see it as much lately. Perhaps it knows that I’m not writing as much, that I don’t need it right now, that for the time being I’m here and am not drifting.
Sometimes you don’t want to drift.
Other times, you get frustrated because you can’t let go.